Flip
by haytherebaybeeee
Summary: It's a futuristic society, in which gene manipulation is the widespread practice. Kenshin is one of the best and is rewarded with the dirty work of an advanced community with its share of dirty secrets... one of which is Kamiya Kaoru.


It's a futuristic society, in which gene manipulation is the widespread practice. Kenshin is one of the best -- and is rewarded with the dirty work of an advanced community with its share of dirty secrets. One of which is Kamiya Kaoru.

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I'm really Stephen-Kinging it up, now. I know it's retarded and my grammar/punctuation is probably royally screwed up, but there you go. This is really just practice instead of inspiration... I'm a bad person, sorry.

Sorry in advance for the cursing, by the way.

**All cursing is for characterization. If you think I could really do without it, shore, fine, whatever… but I won't, sorry.**

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Chapter 1

It was not until later, much later, that George Harvey remembered all that had happened and all that might have happened that day, May the fifteenth. He'd remember the day for sure now, what with it blaring across court papers and legal documents listing the "circumstances of his victimization." His lawyer, who was a bastard with chin-length shaggy blond hair, told him he could expect up to thirty-thousand out of this particular case. He'd been very specific about it.

"But," The Bastard had said, "if we're able to get substantial proof and get our facts straight, we might be able to pin the whole incident to the government. And then, hell, buddy, the sky's the limit!" George disliked the man, from his hair (he was of the opinion that anything past the ear should be illegal, or if not that, then reason to mark him -- publicly -- as a fag), to his goddamn grin. He loathed The Bastard, however, for the condescendingly friendly way he called him buddy while openly glancing at his growing beer gut.

"All I need is details, buddy. The _right _details, see what I mean?"

George clenched his fists. He hadn't fought through the Iraqi wars to be harped on by a goddamn faggot hippy. "I told you, I don't remember."

The Bastard heaved a parental sigh."All right, let's start from the top, then." He leaned back in his chair, shifting his gray suit up. It was probably tailor-made too, George thought with slow loathing. And he wished he was back in his security job with his Magnum at his hip and then nobody with their sneering grins would call him buddy. He imagined taking aim at The Bastard's head and pulling the trigger. Bang. Tomato soup.

But it had all started with his Magnum, hadn't it? And with the man with the long red hair and the sword and that funny slash on his face which he barely had time to see before he was down for the count.

Just remembering him made George Harvey, fifty-three years old and a veteran with a killer shot, scared shitless. He heaved a sigh, fidged with the edging of his khakies, and said, "I told you, it was

-

two o' clock in the morning and George was tired. He was tired of home, he was tired of work, and he was tired of this goddamn project which no longer let him even go home to take in a Jack Daniels and go to bed before waking up and starting the whole shitty cycle all over again. The same project which he wouldn't get to ever find out about even though he put in ten hours of work a weekday because he needed the $12.50 an hour to keep himself and Sarah clothed and fed. The same project which was so vitally important that he had to stand around like an idiot outside a crappy apartment room at all hours of the night.

Nothing ever happened. All he'd been able to see whenever he dared to peek was a young woman with long black hair. Pretty, but not worth his time or their money. Especially not for the four or five weeks he'd been working this shift. He guessed that she was probably in a witness protection program in some sort of criminal case. Maybe a high-class whore who was helping put her pimp in the slammer, or something. George neither knew nor cared all that much, although he'd had a hell of a lot of time to speculate. Too much time, in fact.

George shifted and put a hand on his Magnum, enjoying the feel of the cold metal. Lately, the goddamn project had sucked up all his time...even those hours specially reserved for the shooting range. He wouldn't care that much, he figured, if he was in action.

A little something to end the monotony would be nice. A little action.

As if someone had been listening to his thoughts, that moment there was a subtle, creeping noise from the stairwell to his left. An intentional sound.

He grinned nervously and tightened his grip on the gun before hesitantly pulling it out of its hip holster. He swept the muzzle from side to side and was vaguely aware that he was sweating profusely.

It was then that he heard the voice. It was calm and cool, and coming from his left. "Put down the gun. I'll make it less painful."

George started and jumped to his right, swinging his gun to point at the voice. "Who--"

"Put down the gun." It was a short man, with long red hair tied back in a high ponytail. There was nothing feminine about the wicked scar marring his cheek, however, or the practiced way he put his hand on the handle of his--

_sword?_

George giggled nervously, and afterwards he would not admit, even to himself, that it had been a frightened, high-pitched sound. A sword? A little man had managed to make him sweat in fear and was challenging his Magnum with a piece of hunk-of-junk metal?

"No."

He grinned. His confidence was restored.

The swordsman shrugged.

Even in his confidence, George felt momentarily terrified of this man who was fearless even when clearly at the disadvantage. He pulled the trigger with a shaking finger.

He was unconcious a moment later.

-

Kenshin moved quietly toward the man lying prone on the floor. The beer-gutted man was middle-aged, and had a substantial amount of blood running from a wound on his head. He debated for a moment about whether to kill him or leave him, and decided that it wouldn't matter. All the man knew was the way his attacker looked; and even if the judge of whatever lawsuit would eventually follow was informed, there was nothing they could really do about it. No one knew him.

When he was being briefed for his first assignment, he had been warned not to get too talkative, not to chat it up with the target or any witnesses that would (regrettably) have to be taken care of as well. Things had gone wrong before, they told him. Assassins had gotten caught up in the bad-guy spiel before, they told him, going on about their intentions and their beliefs and on and on and on and practically handing their victims a chance for a turnaround, as well as a clean ID match. There had been shaves, very close ones at that, and he was in no way to make the mistake that they did unless he wanted his own head rolling. No personality on assignments, they warned him.

They needn't have bothered. He obliged silently and completely. He showed no personality not only when on assignment, but whenever he associated with the corporation at all. Kenshin was sure there was a fair amount of colleagues that thought he had no personality at all, and existed soley for the benefit of the corporation.

That wasn't true, but it was close.

Kenshin smiled bitterly.

After all, the men he worked for were very good at what they did.

He stepped over the man's body (his chest was still moving, Kenshin noted) and across the stained beige carpeting towards a nondescript white door. Gold-leifed numbering told that it was room 24. Kenshin held his sword up horizantally, reversing it so that the hilt was facing the cold white glow of the door, and then charged.

The metal of the hilt smashed into the lock, and the door swung open and slammed against the wall with a bang.

Kenshin, expecting a scream, an attack with a household appliance, _anything_, was suprised to be greeted with a dark, silent, and seemingly empty corridor. He dropped his stance in a believable act of unreadiness and slid the sword into its sheath, fingers ready to react at the slightest movement.

There was none.

He walked carefully through the hallway, which opened into a small sitting room. He stepped on a recent copy of a features magazine. A sweater hung over a small nondescript couch. There was definitely someone living here.

You would've thought that they'd be reacting. A small frown crossed his fine features. He knew she - whoever she was - was here. But where? The blast of the guard's magnum should've been loud enough to rouse the dead.

Unless she really was. His brows contracted and he stepped forward.

There was a door across the room. He tried it, expecting it to be locked. It swung open easily to display a bedroom. There was a wardrobe in the left corner, and in the right, a bed. On the bed was a woman - he knew it would be - curled in the bedsheets, her face to the wall.

Her hair was black and the light slipping through her window shone off of it. She shifted and muttered intelligebly in her sleep. Kenshin lifted his sword to attention, ignoring the quietly piercing sound of the sword sliding from its sheath, and stepped toward her. He wiped his forehead in disgust. He had not realized he had been sweating.

As he did so, she turned towards him and blinked sleepily.

He lowered his sword, not speaking, barely moving. He had dealt with many beautiful women before, and was not stricken off-guard by this -- girl -- with her hair in disarray and confused, clouded blue eyes. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five.

"Shinsaku?" she murmered.

Kenshin's breath caught in his throat at the name, but he didn't move from his position. "Come with me."

Her features cleared. "Shinsaku, I knew you'd -" her sentence was broken by a large yawn "- come..." Her eyelids fluttered, and she swung her arm haphazardly over her eyes. "I'm tired...It hasn't been..."

Her sheets were white and bright and cold in the cheap light shining through the window from a blaring yellow "LIQU R" sign across the street. Her face was pale, almost spectral in the reflecting glare. Strewn around the room were various articles of clothing -- a tee shirt, a sock, a pair of jeans -- as well as a fair amount of dust. His nose wrinkled.

"Come with me." He slowly sheathed his sword, trying to avoid the keen, high note as he slid metal into metal. He did not remove his hand from the handle, however; he'd been caught off guard once by a woman playing harmless.

His jaw tightened, casting light upon the one wicked scar down his left cheek.

It only took one time for him to learn.

Her quiet reply. "But..." Her gaze slipped towards her white wrist, upon which was a rubber band, down to her knees, until her head was drooping almost to her shoulder.

He studied her silently. She was dozing off again. For the third time, he murmered, "Come with me."

She inhaled, exhaled, and slowly, jerkily slid her legs off of the bed. They were still tangled in the sheets, and she didn't seem to notice. She seemed to have been drugged, and her thin oversized tee and shorts hung off her body, making her already slight frame seem skeletal.

He stepped forward and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her with him. The girl rested her head upon his shoulder and muttered "Shinsaku" once more before slumping into sleep. He shifted to accomodate her weight, considered it, and swung her over his shoulder.

She didn't wake up, not then, nor when they arrived at the facilities.


End file.
